


Postcards from Hell

by Illusn



Series: Short horror stories [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Horror, short horror story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 18:30:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18696949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illusn/pseuds/Illusn





	Postcards from Hell

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a fiery orange glow across the stone tiles. My black shoes made a tapping noise with each step as I walked up the path. I never liked the return home. It always seemed too empty without my wife, and it was for this reason that I had been at choir into the evening. For ten years it had been my routine: work, choir, reading and sleep, ever since she had passed away.  
The dark windows of my apartment glared down at my as I unlocked the door with my wrinkled old hands, marks around the keyhole from my shaking grip on the keys stood out like deep gauges, reminders of my aged, crumbling self.  
A desolate hallway welcomed me back, as it did every night. I went to wipe my shoes on the doormat, only to notice a postcard. The edges were singed, the design bubbled up and distorted, making the tropical beach look molten. I turned it over in my hands, and on the back was a sentence of handwritten text.  
There was no address, no name, just the phrase “The weather’s positively freezing, isn’t it?”  
Unwanted tears trickled down my cheeks, memories flooding back in a cascade of emotions: her bright smile as she said those very words, forgoing a puffy jacket in the middle of winter with the claim that the cold didn’t bother her.  
I continued to read.  
“It’s so warm here. I’m sure you’d like it here if it weren’t for the flames.  
I’m so sorry you had to hear from me like this after ten years. Please don’t feel sad, I’m still here, just in another plane of being as it were, and it’s not so bad here. Hope you’re well,  
Eve.”  
This seemed like a cruel joke, it must have been. Some stupid prank by a disgruntled neighbour. Eve was my angel - angels go to heaven. This was a fake, an elaborate one, but a fake nonetheless.  
I pushed aside the thoughts and emotions running rampant through my mind, and sat down in a worn, woven chair, my fingers trembling as I picked up my kindle from the table next to me in the living room. As much as I tried to let myself become absorbed in the story, that damned postcard nagged at the back of my mind, and I opted instead to browse Facebook, scrolling mindlessly through my feed until a distinctive face met mine.  
Eve, my wife, in an in memoriam post. Her smiling face crinkled gently with her smile, and I could remember the time when I took the photo like an old video tape playing over in my mind. This was from a trip to the aquarium we’d taken on our trip to London. She’d been ecstatic to see the jellyfish, and when we’d finally made it to their tanks she’d been overjoyed and asked for me to take a photo of her with them.  
It was such a small thing, but her energy and love of life was really unparalleled. That was until she experienced a fatal heart attack.It had come as a total surprise, a result of an unnoticed blood clot, and her death was met with grief from all who knew her, as documented on the post from exactly 10 years ago to the day.  
Tears trickled down my cheeks in rivlets, dripping onto the phone screen, dividing the light into the red, green and blue that made it up. 

The next day I tried to act civil with my neighbours, despite knowing that one of them had thought it appropriate to torment an old man for some petty reason. My heart still panged when my thoughts were left to wander, like becoming aware of a cut that previously did not hurt until you looked at it.  
Work dragged on, but all things considered, doing group accounting was definitely better than sitting at home alone, and it paid the bills. My mind drifted back to my wife throughout the day, but the pain was easier to manage when surrounded by others.  
By the end of work, my spirits were lifted somewhat, that was, until I arrived home. There, on my doormat, was another postcard.  
The design was one from the Tate Modern gift shop, another memory from our trip to London, and it brought a tormented tear to my eye, which I brushed away with the back of my leathery hand. I picked up the card, flipping it over delicately, the scorched design flaking off under my fingers as I did so, and read the text written in ink on the back.  
“I’m so sorry.”  
I could recognise that handwriting anywhere. The neat small lettering joined by looping lines - it was her, and no one could fake that. No one could fake these messages.  
One question occupied my mind as wet marks sunk into the charred card: What on earth was she apologising for?

I can only hope that I’m wrong in my conclusions, but if Eve went to Hell, I think we all will. The Devil is not a chooser, and we’re all his prey. At least then, perhaps, I can be with her again. 

And Eve, if you’re reading this, I love you so much. I’m so sorry.


End file.
